I was at a sporting event tonight when one of the participants was hurt and laying out on the floor. As it turned out, I was sitting next to the injured woman’s parents. As I talked to the mom, I learned that her daughter had always been involved in sports, but had never been injured beyond needing stitches. At this point, we were concerned that she may have broken her leg.
Trying to be empathetic, I indicated that I couldn’t imagine who hard it must be to watch this from a distance and that I had never been in her situation. Then it dawned on me; I saw my son in the hospital unconscious. Within five hours, I was told he had died. I saw him laid out in a casket and then we had a funeral.
In retrospect, I was astonished that for a brief moment I didn’t remember that trauma; I couldn’t imagine her pain in seeing her daughter her, not knowing the outcome. But I do know that. I hate that I know that, but I do.
That is my reality and I’ll never escape being a mom who has buried a child. No pain is worse – at least I can’t imagine anything worse.
My cousin, whose 30 year old son was killed by a drunk driver just last August described the pain well. She had always been very close to her parents, never living further away than next door. Both of her parents have passed away. She was trying to describe to her friend the pain of losing her child. She said to her friend, “you know how hard it was for me when my parents each died. On a scale of 1 to 10 . . . . no, that won’t work. On a scale of 1 to 100, losing my parents was a 1; losing Kevin was 100.”
I, fortunately, haven’t lost anybody else who is very close to me. Let me tell you however, that if it can be worse than this, I don’t have a chance.